Read this today while researching some photographers and was glad someone else had put into words what I've thought before:

"...You know how sometimes music makes you feel like you’re in a different place? Or it can grab you, accentuating some moment just so, making it a little more wonderful? How about when you see a photo, and feel instantly nostalgic for a place or person you’ve never been to or met, but still somehow, through that captured light, feel a connection? Music and photography are forever entwined, both as creative outlets and powerful emotional forces…"

life of a thought

almost i am persuaded that a thought has no form, no breath, no life, 

until it lives on paper. 

of my little dawn

Isaiah 40 has been a beautiful passage to me this week, presenting itself more boldly than ever I remembered it before.  I've read it over and over…again, it's that force of God that is forever protecting His little ones from those who would destroy them, and showing Himself a bold, fierce and gentle Father.  Some of my favorites…

40/10 − 11 

'Behold, the Lord God will come with strong hand, and his arm shall rule for Him: behold, his reward is with Him, and His work before Him.  He shall feed his flock like a shepherd: he shall gather the lambs with his arm, and carry them in his bosom and shall gently lead those that are with young.'

This passage was applied to my mind today in a sweet way.  I was looking through old photos/documents {i wish i could say "in my attic, among some old leather cases and thick, dusty trunks…" but alas! it was all this villain-ish, virtual age} and found this picture of Dawn.  

It's a fine photo. Pretty clear. Kind of childishly sweet. But the thing that got me was remembering taking it, and realizing that the reason it was waist up was because at that time she was sitting in a wheel chair.  That seems so distant, most times, yet, during that dark season no one had the comfort of knowing she'd ever be healed.  The question of her ever walking, playing, sitting cross-legged to play a game or getting in bed by herself was besides the point.  We were simply trying to face the fact that she couldn't walk, that the pain she dealt with on a daily basis was unimaginable and the cause was as vague and unknown as the cure.  How gently God has gathered His children to Himself, though…He is merciful, gracious, kind.  He would have been the same, had He seen fit not to heal Moriah, but, oh His kindness in doing so!  We found out a month or so that the virus she'd been attacked with, also affected thousands of other people. 1/3 of those people recovered fully, 1/3 have relapses and chronic back trouble and 1/3 of the people affected never recover.

  Surely, He is gracious in mercy.  How can I deny that, when I see Dawn, healthy, strong {as an ox, I might add - she has the fortitude of a native}, full of vigor, life, bright imagination, a will so strong as to impress and even at times embarrass her piers and elders to shame?  

Thankful to this great God, this Mighty One who has 'renewed strength like the eagles' so that my sweet Dawn can 'run and not be weary...' and 'walk and not faint.'

a good day's end

         "Rose!" Dawn shouts to Merry, whom she calls 'Rosamond', "I'm going to take a shower, and by the time I get out, you had better have made those chocolate chip cookies!"  But then she runs to Merria and puts an arm around her neck and says winkingly "I'z jest kiddn, kid.  We love you…now make us some good little cookies, Rosamond…"

It's old carpet and blue and very walked and sat and wrestled and laid on.  I sat on it, back to a doorframe and watched her play.  She's tough and short and spunky, and I love her. I love watching her play.  It's a doorway to her very soul, I think. D Formsma bakes cookies too, and the most steamy, crusty-on-the - outside- soft- on-the inside - kind of bread you ever tasted. And cinnamon rolls. But this day she was out of the kitchen and at the piano, just for me, and I felt as special as I should have at this token of kindness. She introduced to me Franz Liszt and his  "Three Concert Etudes S.144 No.3 "Un Sospiro".  I've never forgotten him since.

  It's not just the piece. It's the way she plays it that made all the hot wet things come splashing on my cheek and hands.  I love it now, for many reasons, and have listened to it over and over again today.

  Good old home. I'm glad to be back after a summer of traveling.  I love traveling, but you know, it's good to walk in and be home and to see and hear all the things of home that make it what it is…The smell, the creaky benches, the way the front door slams, the way the back door stays open because no one remembers to shut it; the faucet that, even though it's new, has now followed in the footsteps of its Elder Faucet and keeps sliding down and turning off, most inconveniently; the lantana that has bushed over the very mailbox and stretches itself in all directions, oblivious to its eccentricity and merely absorbing all the beautiful sunshine it can manage; the way the purple bathroom trashcan is forever being turned catty-cornered then straight again, and how the rug never stays in one place, because some like it by the toilet, others by the tub, others by the sink; the sunflower in the back yard that we watched and waited for, and is now here, tall and gangly; the way the school room fan bangs when it's on high and how the books keep trying to fall out of the bottom of the piano bench, because it's so full; the back closets - the closets at all - and how they have too much, and ever room for more; the oven with a broken handle, the teapot that gets turned on without any water; the perpetual pot of coffee; the crickets outside the windows at night and the way the summer light comes through the kitchen window in the evening…home is a wonderful place, nor would it be without its little imperfections. 

 Tonight at prayer it struck me again what an unworthy recipient of all my Father's goodness I am. 

Does He not daily, even moment by moment open the windows of heaven to pour out His kindnesses on my life and family?  Daddy took my hand and squeezed it in his big calloused one as I sat on the side of his chair {I declare, one day that chair is going to have a panic attack and fall apart}.  Everybody went around and prayed.  That quiet evening restfulness.  Our family with that Great and Kind Friend who is always with us.  I like the way daddy's stomach rises and falls under my hand when he's holding it and the way he keeps holding it, even when mine gets hot like it does, and I like how the whippoorwill who lives in the front yard's evergreen tree seems to know the right time to sing his sweet, melancholy summer song. 

Merria just came and gave me a thumb full of chocolate chip cookie dough.

"Without chocolate chips, just for you," she says. 

All in all, I'd say that's a Good Day's End.